


Staying Quiet

by ThereBeWhalesHere



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Car Sex, Connor calling Hank Baby, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Hand Jobs, Human AU, M/M, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Montage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 02:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20382430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereBeWhalesHere/pseuds/ThereBeWhalesHere
Summary: A one-night stand turns into much more when Hank finds out the true identity of the gorgeous twink he fucked at the bar the night before.*This was originally written as a thread on Twitter, but now it features a bonus sex scene ;)





	Staying Quiet

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading, everyone!! I wrote this as a thread on Twitter originally but decided to clean it up for AO3. Hope you enjoy it!

Hank doesn’t consider himself a creature of habit, but he can admit his life has become monotone these last few years. Everything existing in the same shade of shitty gray. Go to work around noon, go to Jimmy’s after, get wasted, pass out, repeat. Sometimes he skips the bar and goes straight home, gets trashed there, but what’s the difference, really? 

Everywhere he goes is like a painted background on a movie set, two-dimensional, lifeless. Doesn’t really matter where he is or who he’s with in the long run. Nothing  _ really _ matters.

His life requires exactly as much effort as he is willing and able to put into it, sometimes even less. But by the nature of his job -- the basic functions of which he does still perform sometimes -- things  _ have  _ to change every once in a while. 

Things change tonight. Just as he throws on his jacket and grabs his keys, ready to go home and drink himself to sleep, Captain Fowler steps right into his path, and proceeds to bend his ear about a crime scene a few cops on the other side of town just stumbled on.

He could choose not to go, but the look Fowler pins him with makes his precarious position pretty clear. Hank doesn’t care about his job much anymore, doesn’t care about anything much anymore, but he needs a paycheck to survive. 

So he sighs. And he gets in his car. And he drives four precincts over to look at a busted up jewelry store.

It's bullshit, all because the MO sounds like it might be connected to one of Hank's active cases. Turns out the “connections” are coincidence, and Hank could’ve figured that out from a picture if they had bothered to send him one instead of calling him out at the end of the day.

After that useless trip, Hank could use a drink or ten a damn sight sooner than if he were to drive all the way across town to Jimmy’s. The itch of it claws under his skin, the urge to drown himself. Everything’s too vivid, too bright, and he misses the gray.

So he drives, and scans the storefronts and shopping malls here in the rich part of town for only a few minutes before he manages to find this place, though even as he pulls into the parking lot he half regrets it.

Hank prefers a good dive, but this is a flagrantly modern-looking dance club whose edifice is lit by a glaring, magenta neon sign, with some folks out smoking in the parking lot and a loud bassline trembling through the concrete sidewalk. But, fuck, there'll be booze inside.

The second he walks in, he pulls up a stool at a half-empty bar, and orders the same drink he’d order anywhere else. Might be a crick in his routine tonight, but he isn’t gonna abandon it entirely.

The place is about ten times bigger than Jimmy’s, the majority of it occupied by a large dance floor full of young, writhing bodies, gyrating to some pop song that Hank’s sure he’s heard somewhere before -- maybe on the radio, maybe coming from Gavin’s headphones when the prick thought he was keeping his music low enough no one would know he was into the bubblegum shit.

But Hank doesn’t really care whether the music’s any good or the dancers are loud or whether he knows any faces around here. Only person he cares to spend time with is Jim Beam, and he’s got a double shot of him right there in his glass.

He assumes after one drink, and then another, that this is how his night is going to go. Because this is how his nights  _ always _ go. Alone. At a bar. The world moving on around him.

But that is  _ not _ how tonight goes.

The club fills up as the hour edges later and later. Soon the dance floor overflows into the bar area, loud conversations a cacophony of their own over the music, and Hank is already strung tight and his third drink is barely dulling the edge, and he keeps thinking about how this was a mistake but if he drinks just a little bit more he won’t notice or care.

But Hank’s not quite drunk enough when a body crashes into him from behind, and damn it he’s already prepared for a fight. Whiskey sloshes over Hank's fingers as a hand steadies itself on his shoulder, and Hank's whole body goes taut. “Motherfucker,” Hank grits out, wheeling around to give this shit a piece of his mind.

But his eyes fall on the contrite, drink-flushed face of a young man, both his hands raised in front of him. A curl of hair lays unruly over his forehead, damp with sweat, and his warm brown eyes reflect the dance floor’s flashing lights.

“Sorry,” he says, like he means it. His voice is bright and warm, much like his smile, and Hank might not be drunk yet, but he isn’t sober enough to pretend his eyes don’t trace the lines of his freckles from his cheek down to his chin down to the open collar of his crisp, white shirt. “Been dancing all night -- might’ve lost my balance.”

The fire leaves Hank in one breath and he waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, turning back to his drink. He wipes his hand on his jeans; he’s used to his clothes smelling like stale whiskey. 

That should probably be the end of it.

It isn’t.

The kid plasters himself against the bar at Hank’s side, waving to get the bartender’s attention. But the bartender looks slammed at the other end, and it might be a while before she comes this way again. Seems this guy comes to the same conclusion.

With a huff, he puts his elbows on the bar and hunkers down for a wait. “It's not like I  _ need _ another,” he says, and Hank takes a second to realize he’s talking to  _ him _ . There’s a little smile on the kid’s face when he turns to look at Hank once more.

“I should probably stop for the night. I start my new job tomorrow, and I don’t exactly want to be hungover.” Hank smiles ruefully -- in spite of himself. There’s something eager and youthful in that voice, and that smile shines brighter than the flashing lights over the dance floor.

But Hank doesn’t come to bars to meet people. So he turns back to his glass. “Yeah, well, that’s a problem for tomorrow-you,” Hank mutters.

_ That _ should be the end of it, too.

“What are you drinking?” The question’s too friendly, and Hank takes a breath for patience. But before he can kindly ask to be left wallowing, the kid continues. “Wait, let me guess. Whiskey, straight. Jim Beam?”

Hank snorts and swirls his glass. Is he that transparent? “You got me, kid,” Hank says. “How’d you know?”

“I’m good at reading people.”

That handsome smile is wider now, and a flush dances over his cheeks. And if Hank weren’t easily the oldest and least attractive person in this bar, he’d be half convinced this fucker was flirting with him.

“Good at reading people,” Hank echoes a little derisively, but apparently not bitter enough to dissuade that shining grin. He takes a pointed sip of his whiskey. “Me too.” That’s added almost as an afterthought, but the kid shuffles onto the stool beside Hank’s, eager as a puppy.

“Do me, then,” he says. It’s almost a demand. “What am I drinking?”

It’s stupid to indulge him, but Hank used to be a good detective. There's red around the fingernails of this guy’s index finger and thumb, where he went fishing for a maraschino cherry in a sea of grenadine.

“Dirty Shirley,” Hank says without missing a beat.

The responding laugh sounds like -- well, Hank’s not so far gone he’s going to resort to romantic analogies for some twink he just met in a bar -- but it sounds  _ nice _ . Hank pushes the thought from his mind.

The second the bartender comes over Hank will be forgotten. Except, it doesn’t look like Hank's new friend cares about getting the bartender’s attention anymore. “I like this game,” he says, his voice pitched lower as he leans closer toward Hank. “Guess something else about me.”

Hank, who felt comfortable in the heat moments before, suddenly wants very much to remove his jacket. He resists the urge, but gives into a different one. Purposefully, he rakes his eyes up and down the man’s frame -- something he forced himself  _ not _ to do earlier.

He’s wearing a nice dress shirt with cufflinks pinning the sleeves, even though he seems to have shed the outfit's accompanying blazer. Nice slacks, polished shoes. He’s also a little drunk. “You’re celebrating something tonight,” Hank says. “This new job of yours, maybe?”

His companion looks delighted “You  _ are _ good. And  _ mostly _ right. I’m also celebrating my graduation. Top of the class -- graduated just this morning.” The pride in his voice is infectious, and some tension loosens in Hank’s spine. Maybe a casual chat isn’t the worst thing in the world.

If nothing else, Hank's forgotten for a moment about the music and the dancers and the threat of his empty home waiting for him and the threat of the sun burning through the blinds tomorrow morning and the threat of another gray day after this one. 

The kid's sweet.

So Hank raises his glass in toast. “Congrats. What’s your degree?” Hank can’t tell this guy’s age. Instinct says he must be talking about a master’s degree, but for all Hank knows, this sweet, smooth face belongs to some 24-year-old, fresh out of undergrad. And that’s something Hank very much does  _ not  _ want to think about.

“Ah-ah." He nudges Hank with his shoulder. “You’re supposed to guess. But it’s my turn, anyway.”

“Your turn?” Hank asks, dubious and obviously so.

“To guess something about you.”

He leans his elbow on the bar and gives Hank a long, lingering once-over. Those warm brown eyes seem to graze over Hank’s shoulders, down his chest and stomach, and Hank tries to resist the urge to swallow under the scrutiny.

Except there’s no judgement in that look. Far from it; there’s something appreciative, hungry, dark in those eyes. It sends a shiver down Hank’s spine. And that’s when it hits him. This _ is _ flirting. Hank’s so shocked by the realization he forgets that he’s supposed to be good at reading people.

Nodding to himself, the kid straightens. “Alright, I’ve got it. You’re law enforcement, right? That or retired military, but my money’s on police."

Hank snorts. “Alright,” he says, waving him away. “Alright, you saw my badge didn’t you?” 

Except, even as he says it he realizes -- he left his badge in the car. His eyes widen, and the kid’s smile spreads.

“Okay how’d you do that, smartass?”

“I told you, I’m good at reading people.” This is punctuated with a sideways smile, a wink, and Hank's chest clenches. Is he hallucinating? Maybe he's finally snapped, his half-drunk and wholly fucked mind conjuring up images of handsome men and imagining impossible flirtations.

Heat crawls up the back of Hank’s neck; he fingers his glass. A little liquid courage is already coursing through his system, but he might need a whole bottle for this. Below the bar, a foot nudges Hank's own, and those dark eyes haven’t left Hank’s face for a second.

When next his unexpected companion speaks, that honey voice is even lower, low enough that Hank has to tilt a little toward him to hear. “Now, I want you to try to guess my name.”

“Your name?” Hank asks, drawing back. “Can’t you just tell me?”

“Come on, try.”

The kid rests a hand on Hank's knee, and a warm pit begins to open up in Hank’s stomach. A familiar, deadly pit. 

“John,” Hank guesses, ‘cause it’s easy. He knows it’s wrong, and he doesn’t care. Something tells him the kid doesn’t care either.

_ John _ laughs, bright and twinkling, like wind chimes. “Not even close,” he says, and Hank shrugs. 

“Hey, worth a try.”

“You can call me John, though,” he says, then pauses -- barely the space of a breath -- “Tonight,” he adds.

Tonight.

Well, fuck. He’s really doing this, isn’t he? Hank nods to himself as if answering his own question. Making a decision with the weight of John's eyes on him, he knocks back the rest of his whiskey and sets the glass on the bar. John watches him slide it away.

“And what are you going to call  _ me _ tonight, then?” Hank asks, meeting John’s eyes. The neon is flashing in their gleam, pink and red and pink and red. John grins like a wolf.

* * *

“Baby, fuck, oh,  _ fuck  _ \--” John’s gasping out the words, breath sharp and bitten off every time he rolls his hips. The car creaks under their shifting weight, rocking on its axles, dizzying.

John plants his hands on Hank’s chest, steadying himself as he rides Hank’s cock like he’s riding a fucking bull. He's  _ relentless _ . The backseat of Hank’s car has never felt so small and tight before, their hot breath suffocating Hank's lungs and fogging the windows.

John’s knee digs into Hank’s side, Hank’s considerable bulk laying half-on and half-off the seat so he has to brace himself every time John slams down onto him. Not that Hank's complaining. It can't hurt when it feels this fucking good.

A sheen of sweat gleams at John’s collarbone; his bare chest is pink in the neon from the bar’s sign across the parking lot and the white shadow of his open shirt is bunched around his elbows, and his face is flushed and perfect and Hank’s hands are on John’s straining thighs and the taste of John’s last Dirty Shirley is still on Hank’s lips and Hank doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard in his  _ life _ . 

Hank's biting his lip to keep quiet, but John doesn't seem to care if every smoker in the parking lot knows exactly what they're doing in here.

“God, baby, you’re so fucking good,” John groans, rising up on his knees and sinking down hard. Hank bites down on a sound, tossing his head back against the seat. Beads of blood blossom between his lip and teeth. “So fucking big, so fucking hard inside me, fuck --”

John took control from the second they left the club -- shoving Hank into the backseat of Hanks car, tearing open his shirt and jeans, kissing him like he was fucking starving for it -- and Hank was so blown away that this was even happening that he let him do whatever he wanted.

But now John's rhythm begins to slow from the strain, his hitched breaths turning frustrated, choked, and it might be Hank's turn to take charge. He meets John's hooded eyes and licks the blood from his lip. "Yeah, baby," John whispers, answering the question Hank didn't ask.

Hank takes two handfuls of John’s thighs to hold him up, lifting John off his cock. A breathy sigh leaves John’s lips before Hank drives up into him, and John doubles over with a cry. He ducks his head against Hank's chest, nodding senselessly. He  _ liked  _ that

Hank does it again.

Untouched between them, John's cock bobs each time Hank fucks up into him, its tip flushed and purpling and slick. 

If they were elsewhere, if they were taking their time, Hank would do better by him. Maybe he would’ve taken John into his mouth, leaned him back on the pillows and let him ride wave after wave of pleasure before Hank even started fucking him. It’s what someone this beautiful deserves, isn’t it? But it’s not what John wants from Hank, and it’s not what Hank wants now that they’re both hurtling so close to that edge.

So Hank loses himself in the friction and the heat and just lets himself  _ take  _ something he wants for once.

Maybe that’s what they’re both doing.

One of John’s hands curls into a fist against Hank’s chest and the other wraps desperate and shaking around his own cock. 

“Yes,” John whispers. “Yes, fuck, just like that, I’m --”

John’s whole body clenches, his thighs trembling, his eyes rolling back and eyelids fluttering.

Hank’s breathless at the sight of him, and for a single, blissful second, time freezes right there on the precipice of -- something. Something Hank is far too far gone to identify. But in a moment John’s letting out a guttural groan and doubling over once more.

He spills himself over Hank’s stomach and tightens around Hank’s cock so hard Hank can barely move. It’s too late to matter, though. As John drops his head to Hank’s chest, breath heaving, it takes only one, two more desperate thrusts for fireworks to burst behind Hank’s eyes.

John rolls his hips slowly as Hank falls limp against the backseat, sweat sticking his lower back to the leather, and Hank’s mind is so cloudy he doesn’t realize when he takes John’s hand, when he begins to lave open-mouthed kisses on his palm, up his wrist and up his arm.

John hums. “You were so good, baby,” he whispers. He’s letting Hank kiss him, letting Hank lick the sweat from his skin. “So fucking good.”

They lay there panting for a few minutes, coming down from that delicious high. 

_ That  _ should be the end of it, too.

* * *

The next morning’s backache is a fucking killer, a sharp line of pain from the spot between Hank’s shoulder blades all the way down to the crack of his ass. But holy shit, was it worth it. Every agonizing step Hank takes reminds him of John, or whatever the guy’s name really was. That tight ass bouncing on Hank’s cock, those hands curling hard against Hank’s chest, the sound of the creaking car axles that's going to give him a hard-on every time he gets in the driver's seat for the foreseeable future.

It’s the first time in a long time he’s had anything to feel this good about -- even if it aches. So with the aid of a few painkillers that help the hangover as much as they help his back, he gets himself out of the house well before his usual time, if only because he's in a fucking fine mood. What a difference a good fuck makes.

Goddamn, but Hank needed last night. It’s been a long time since he’s had a one-night stand, and even longer since he’s had one with a gorgeous, anonymous twink in the parking lot of some random bar. Okay, that’s actually  _ never _ happened before. He’s never had a partner that _ impatient _ before, and it gets his blood pumping just thinking about it.

As he drives to work, he can’t help conjuring up the myriad ‘what-if’s that follow every one-night stand. Should he have asked for John’s number? Maybe. But he recalls the way John reacted when Hank asked to take him home. Suddenly awkward, stiff as he shrugged back into his shirt.

"I have friends inside," he said. "But uh, this was nice."

_ Nice _ , Hank thinks now, laughing to himself. Might've been one of the best fucks of his life, but hey, he'll take nice. He didn't need anything more from John than he got. And if he  _ wanted _ more last night as John kissed him goodbye, slow and deep, Hank could push all that aside.

He got laid for the first time in more than a year, and maybe the thought of it gives him an extra spring in his step and an extra bit of confidence to tackle the day’s bullshit.

And of course that bullshit starts the second he walks into the station.

“Well look who it is!” The shout comes before Hank even fully rounds the corner into the bullpen, Gavin’s familiar voice grating on his hangover-fucked senses. When Hank looks to Gavin’s desk, the detective is leaning back in his seat with his feet tucked up by his computer.

Chen sits perched on the edge of the desk like she usually is, and both are wearing smug sort of smiles -- so nothing wholly different from the day-to-day. “Don't usually see you before noon,” Gavin adds as Hank approaches, “Been body-snatched, old man?”

It takes an act of monumental self-control not to brag about last night, but somehow Hank manages. “Something like that."

“Well you arrived just in time,” Chen puts in. Hank, who was fairly intent on bypassing the pair to head to his desk, takes the bait and slows to a stop.

“For what?” He asks, and Gavin rolls his eyes, leaning father back in his chair.

Chen grins. “You get to see Gavin make an idiot out of himself.”

Interest certainly piqued by that prospect, Hank raises an eyebrow at Gavin. “Alright, what’s going on?”

“I’ve got a new partner,” Chen says. Gavin makes a huffy kind of sound out his nose.

“And apparently he’s," Gavin tosses up derisive air-quotes, "‘just my type.’ Chen thinks I’m going to act like a loser around him.”

“I know he will,” she says through a laugh.

“New partner?” Hank asks, a little distracted. “What about Lewis?”

“He was reassigned too,” Chen says with a shrug. “It’s alright, we weren’t close. This new kid's fresh from the academy, which means I get to boss him around. Can’t wait.” 

Hank lets out a heavy sigh. He's never been one for the superiority complex detectives feel when it comes to the rank-and-file. Gavin, however, is a walking superiority complex, and he seems to have rubbed off on Chen over the years. She’s a uniformed officer, sure, but a senior one.

“Well, enjoy tormenting the newbie,” Hank says. “I hope you plan to warn him about Gavin.”

Gavin swings his feet off his desk, wheeling his chair around to get a better look at Hank. “What about me?” Hank doesn't have to try to look bored; the expression is effortless.

“Between hazing and hitting on any pair of legs that walks through that door, you're a walking human resources nightmare,” Hank says.

But just as Gavin shoots out of his seat, finger up and mouth open to retort, Chen hops off Gavin’s desk with a wide smile. “Connor!” She says warmly, probably the kindest Hank has ever seen her greet another human person. “There you are. Right on time, of course.” 

Hank turns absently -- and it takes his mind a brief, horrifying second to reconcile that face with where he is right now.

It's a face Hank would recognize instantly if only because  _ just last night _ he deposited every single detail about it into his spank bank.

The look on John's face reads much like Hank imagines his own does. His eyes -- which last night stared confidently at Hank, half-lidded and dark -- are now blown so wide they seem to bulge. A splotchy blush has climbed John's --  _ not _ John's -- cheeks, and his spine is so straight Hank expects to hear it snap in half.

But all he hears is Chen’s voice, slowly coming back to his senses as he and John -- looking somehow even more attractive in his crisp blue uniform -- stare in mutual horror at each other.

“This is Detective Gavin Reed and Lieutenant Hank Anderson,” Chen says. She pushes between Gavin and Hank to lay a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Guys, this is Officer Connor Stern, my new partner.”

Connor.  _ Officer Stern. _

From beside Hank, Gavin clears his throat, but Hank can’t quite bring himself to look at him, eyes still locked on Connor’s.

“So, uh, fresh meat then, huh?” Gavin says with a forced laugh. “Watch out, this place’ll tear you up. You look like a fucking 12-year-old.” It all comes out a little wavering, and if Hank could feel anything but shock, he'd be glad Gavin delivered on the promise of making a fool of himself.

Connor’s eyes finally tear from Hank’s and look to Gavin, and those strained muscles in Connor’s cheeks try to pull his lips into a smile. “Detective Reed,” he says. "Lieutenant Anderson. It's a pleasure to meet you both."

_ The pleasure was all mine _ , Hank does  _ not _ say.

Hank flushes hot up to his hairline and turns on a dime, catching a curious glance from Gavin out of his periphery, but refusing to look anywhere but his desk. His hands clench in his pockets, his thoughts turning to white noise, and he stalks purposely away from his mistakes.

What are the fucking odds? Somewhere outside the screaming mess of his head, he vaguely registers Chen, Gavin and Connor still speaking to one another, but he doesn’t hear them. He settles down at his desk and makes damn sure his eyes don’t drift anywhere but his computer screen.

There are plenty of officers in this precinct, Hank reminds himself. Maybe he won't have to work with Connor.  _ Or _ he could retire. Right now. Walk into Fowler's office and put in his resignation. 

But the only thing Hank resigns is himself to his work.

If he keeps his head down, everything will be fine. 

Against his better judgement, he does look up eventually, after he is fairly certain Chen and her new partner must have gone off to get their work done.

But instead the group of three is still standing there. Gavin red in the face and smiling awkwardly, Chen giving Gavin a fond little look -- and Connor, eyes trained on Hank. 

Connor offers Hank a tight smile. Hank can’t quite bear to do the same.

* * *

Most of the day, Hank manages to avoid thoughts of Connor. Well, not so much  _ avoid _ as  _ viciously suppress the second they appear _ . He's still nursing his sore back, still feeling that warm hum of satisfaction after far too long a dry spell.

But every thought along those lines inevitably leads to thinking about that body moving above him in the warm neon light, Connor’s confident smile --

And the look on his face when he saw Hank standing there in the police station where he was starting his first day of work. Fuck.

But even with the memory of the look on Connor’s face in his mind, he doubts the truth when the message comes through his computer later. 

“I swear I didn’t know you worked here,” the message reads. From: Officer Connor Stern. 

“Bullshit,” Hank types back.

“Talk?” Connor sends.

Well, Connor’s pretty but he’s not dumb. It would be too easy for someone to find these messages on the official station messenger. Hank glances around the bullpen. Of course, Connor won’t have his own desk yet, so he can’t fathom where he might be. Hank sighs, rubs his head.

“Break room, 5 mins,” he types. They’ll be in plain view of everyone, but this time of day they hopefully won’t be overheard. 

It’s stupid. He should just tell Connor that it’s behind them. It was a one-night stand and that’s what it’ll stay. Considering the ease with which Connor Sherlocked Hank’s pants right off him, Hank doesn’t doubt Connor will be a fine officer, and if Hank wants to be any good himself he needs to keep his damn hands off his colleagues.

But he doesn’t tell Connor it’s behind them. Instead, he waits a few minutes and stands, making his way over to the break room.

It's blessedly empty for now, at least. Maybe the first stroke of luck he's had since waking up this morning. After a few seconds fiddling with the coffee machine, a blue uniform steps into his periphery.

“Lieutenant,” Connor’s voice greets.

It’s low, practically a whisper, and Hank suppresses a shiver. He liked the sound of Connor calling him ‘baby’ but ‘lieutenant’ isn’t so bad either.

“Officer Stern,” Hank returns. “If you want coffee you’re gonna have to wait a minute. Someone didn’t brew any this morning."

He knows Connor’s not here for coffee, but he leans against the countertop as Hank fills the filter anyway. Out the corner of his eye Hank watches Connor looking over the bullpen, as if making sure no one sneaks up on what is sure to be a wholly inappropriate conversation.

“Last night,” Connor starts, and Hank tries not to flinch at the reminder. “I thought you worked across town. Where we met.”

“Well, I don’t,” Hank says.

“Obviously,” Connor puts in. His lips quirk as Hank sighs, taking the pot off its hotplate and turning to the sink.

“I need you to know…” Connor pauses and his little smile fades. “I want to be a detective,” Connor says. “I want to advance, obviously. But I’m not the kind of person who would try to do it like _ that _ .”

Hank gives Connor the side-eye, but he can tell when someone is lying to save their skin, and Connor’s not lying.

“Why’d you sleep with me, then?” Hank asks anyway.

Connor pins him with a stare. “I’m attracted to you,” he says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Color climbs Hank's cheeks. “Well stop it,” he mutters. Taking his sweet time pouring the water into the coffee maker, Hank’s grateful to have reason not to look at Connor.

“No.”

Water sloshes over the side of the reservoir, and Hank whips his head around. Connor’s got his arms crossed over his chest, a look on his face that’s infinitely closer to the way he looked at Hank last night. Heat spreads through Hank’s veins.

“Little shit,” Hank says with a huff. It'd be a laugh if he could muster one. He thumbs the brew button without really thinking and turns to lean against the counter with Connor. “Ignoring a lieutenant’s order on your first day? That won’t look good in your disciplinary file.”

Connor’s responding smile makes Hank’s stomach drop into his feet. “I can’t control whether or not I’m attracted to you,” he says. 

“Try harder.”

Connor laughs. “I’ll work on it, Lieutenant. No promises." His eyes fall to the mirror reflection of his brightly polished shoes.

Poor guy probably thought he was starting his new job on a good foot. Poor guy probably worked his ass off to get here. And Hank ruined it just by existing. Fuck. 

Hank takes in a long breath, nodding quietly to himself and trying to force back a scowl.

He should say something. If they’re going to work together, they need to clear this air right now. But silence falls between them, broken only by the sound of the coffee percolating.

“Do you regret it?” Connor asks before Hank can think of anything to say.

“What, last night?”

Connor snorts. “Yeah, last night.” 

Hank holds his eyes, those warm, smiling eyes. And -- as awkward as this is -- he certainly doesn’t regret the opportunity he got to see that sweet face looking at him like Connor looked at him last night.

The coffee pot clicks as it finishes brewing.

“Do you regret it?” Connor asks again.

“You’re good at reading people. Guess,” Hank says dryly. A sweet, musical laugh is Hank’s reward. Connor turns, reaches for the coffee pot behind Hank, and their arms brush.

Connor’s voice is close to Hank’s ear when he whispers. “Neither do I.”

Fuck. 

“But it can’t happen again,” Hank says, tense as Connor pulls back, pot in hand. 

“Of course it can’t” Connor agrees. “We weren’t even planning on seeing each other again, right? Nothing’s changed.”

Except even as he says it, there’s definitely a shift in the air. As if suddenly nothing they’ve said means anything at all. Or, rather, it means far more than either of them are going to acknowledge. “Right,” Hank agrees. “Nothing’s changed.”

* * *

Somewhere in the back of Hank's mind, he remembers that he was just washing his hands. How had it happened again? Right. He finished his lunch, got burger grease all over his fingers, and came to the bathroom to wash it off.

He was just scrubbing under his nails when the door opened. He wouldn't have spared a second thought for it if it hadn't been the exact person he'd sworn to avoid for the rest of his natural life. 

Connor had stood there as the door had swung shut behind him, and he had looked surprised to have found Hank here -- or maybe that  _ wasn't _ a look of surprise. Maybe it was terror? Probably. That's what Hank had felt staring at Connor, both of them standing still as statues.

Because how were either of them supposed to resist if they were alone?

So that was how it started, but Hank can't remember how he got from there to  _ here _ . How did he end up with his tongue down Connor's throat, pressing Connor against the counter with the sink still on, Connor's leg around Hank's back? With Connor's hands in his hair, his own gripping Connor's waist?

Surely neither of them  _ planned _ this. 

"Stop thinking," Connor hisses into Hank's mouth. He kisses the protest from Hank’s lips, tonguing between his teeth, hitching his hips against Hank’s. He gets the exact reaction he’d hoped for if his satisfied groan is anything to go by.

Connor pulls away just enough to yank Hank’s head back by his hair, then ducks into the hollow of Hank’s neck. A sharp inhale, then lips and tongue trace the line of Hank's pulse. "Fuck, Connor,” Hank breathes. His eyes flick to the door. “If someone walks in --”

With a frustrated sound, Connor pulls back, his pupils blown wide. For a brief (disappointing) second, Hank thinks he may have talked Connor out of an inappropriate bathroom tryst, but then Connor's hands are on his chest and he’s shoving Hank back toward the stalls.

This feels like last night -- dangerously so. Connor taking control, letting Hank know exactly what he wants from him without having to say anything aloud. “Isn't Chen expecting you?” Hank protests weakly. “I thought you were one of those overachieving workaholics."

The backs of his legs hit the edge of the toilet, and Connor closes the door behind them. The stalls are closed, but not soundproof. They aren’t exactly safe here. “Employee manual says I get an hour for lunch,” Connor says, cheeky, a smile on his face.

“Also probably says something about not fucking in the station bathroom.” Hank is breathless already, but he's trying. Trying to be calm or controlled or anything Connor isn't.

Connor’s hands return to Hank’s chest, gentler this time, fingers slipping under the collar of Hank’s shirt as they climb up to Hank’s shoulders. “I don’t recall reading anything about that,” Connor says.

Against his better judgement, Hank lets Connor steer him against the wall.

“Maybe they thought it was common sense,” Hank mutters, and Connor chuckles something warm and deep. He leans in to lay a kiss on Hank’s cheek, another finding Hank’s lips.

It’s chaste --  _ more _ chaste, at least. Hard to call it chastity when he can feel Connor’s half-chub against his thigh.

“Do you want me to stop?” Connor asks, breath hot on Hank’s lips. Hank inhales deep, steadying.

The question gives Hank pause. What  _ does _ he want? Last night, he wanted to be left alone. All it took was Connor’s smile for him to change his mind --  _ then _ all he wanted was to take him home, fuck him  _ right _ this time, hold him, fall asleep, wake up and make him breakfast. Ridiculous domestic shit Hank hasn’t wanted in years.

And right now? He doesn’t know what he  _ wants _ , but he emphatically knows what he doesn’t want. And he does  _ not _ want Connor to stop.

“We gotta make this quick,” Hank says. His big, clumsy fingers find the belt buckle of Connor’s uniform. Connor’s breath hitches as Hank pops the clasp. “ _ And _ ,” Hank adds, “quiet.”

Connor swallows, nods, draws his hands down Hank’s chest and stomach until he finds the button on Hank’s jeans. “I can be quiet,” he whispers, as if to prove the point.

It turns out, Connor  _ can _ be quiet. With some help. He manages not to make a sound as he tugs down the fly of Hank’s jeans, as Hank yanks the slacks down the curve of Connor’s ass, as Connor shoves Hank hard against the wall, as Hank takes them both in-hand.

He manages to bite his lip against a whimper when Hank begins to move, loosening and tightening his grip in a rhythm that makes Connor pant and huff against Hank’s shoulder. But it’s when Hank thumbs the head of his cock that the loud and reckless Connor of last night returns.

“Fuck,  _ baby _ ,” Connor moans seemingly without a thought for his volume, the word rolling like molasses off his tongue.

Hank lays his free hand over Connor’s mouth, his other hand never losing rhythm where he’s working their cocks over between them. “Shh,” Hank whispers gently.

Connor meets his eyes, and the look he gives Hank -- desperate and needy and not altogether unfamiliar -- it makes heat coil in Hank's gut. Both of them harden noticeably in his grip. "Shh," he whispers again, shaky, half in reminder to himself. "Quiet now."

It may be in retaliation that Connor draws Hank’s fingers between his lips -- that he begins to  _ suck _ , but it sure as shit doesn’t feel like a punishment. Hank has to bite back his own satisfied sound, pace increasing, his grip already slick. This  _ is _ going to be quick.

Both of Connor’s hands grab Hank’s, thumbs pressing into Hank's palm as Connor tongues at the pads of Hank’s fingertips one by one. Hank thuds his head against the wall. His breath is heaving, his heart pounding.

And when Connor groans around Hank’s fingers, Hank turns to take the collar of his shirt between his teeth to stop from making any noise himself.

“Ffk” he curses around the fabric, and Connor’s hot breath dances over Hank's hand as he chuckles.

He licks a long stripe up Hank’s palm to the tip of his middle finger. “Shh,” Connor soothes. “I thought -- hng,  _ fuck _ \-- I thought we -- had to be  _ quiet _ , Lieutenant.”

“I’m trying,” Hank whispers through clenched teeth. He tightens his grip around their cocks and Connor takes Hank’s thumb and forefinger into his mouth, biting down to stifle a cry. Hank doesn’t know which of them whimpers at that, but the sound echoes too loud against the tile.

It’s that sound that does it, though. Something primal and dark rumbles from Connor’s chest; something high-pitched and needy gets caught in Hank’s throat; and Hank loses track of his rhythm, jerking them off so fast and hard it’s almost  _ painful _ .

Neither of them last long after that. By the time they come together over Hank’s hand, Hank’s forgotten entirely why they were supposed to be careful. He groans bodily, frees his fingers from between Connor’s lips and muffles his voice in Connor’s mouth.

They kiss sloppy and wet and panting, and Connor lines up their bodies inch by inch as he presses Hank hard against the wall, and Hank doesn’t even care how stupid this was.

He grips Connor’s hair as he strokes them through the afterglow, and Connor sighs happily into his mouth.

World returning to Hank in pieces, all less enjoyable than the man currently draped against him like he’s boneless, he strains his ears. He can’t hear anyone shuffling around outside the door-- maybe they got lucky. At the thought, he laughs a little. They  _ absolutely _ got lucky.

"Wow," he mutters, and he doesn't even realize he said it aloud until Connor's laughing too, dropping his head to Hank's shoulder.

"You said it."

They clean themselves off somewhat inadequately, somewhat awkwardly. Connor wipes the cum from Hank’s fingers with such a gentle touch, Hank almost forgets they’re in the bathroom stall of the goddamn police station.

He forgets it double when Connor kisses Hank’s palm, tosses the toilet paper in the bin and gives Hank one of those warm smiles that are rapidly becoming Hank’s favorite sight in the world.

God. How the fuck is Hank going to keep his hands off this one?

"Whoops," Connor says, though he doesn't look terribly contrite as he zips up his fly, buckles his belt.

"Whoops?" Hank echoes with a scoff. "Second time in 24 hours you and me have been publicly indecent, y'know. ‘Whoops’ doesn't cover it."

"Want to make it three?" Connor asks.

Hank leans back against the wall, hand on his heart. "You're going to fucking kill me, Jesus."

"Sorry, Lieutenant," Connor says. He lays his hand over Hank's. Over Hank's  _ heart _ . Hank doesn't breathe. "I was just kidding."

They lock eyes, something unsaid passing between them. Hank tries to put words to it anyway. "This won't happen again, right? It's out of our systems, this whole… thing." He gestures awkwardly between them.

"Right," Connor agrees. His smile looks a little unsure. "Absolutely. Never again." A pause.

"We're shit liars," Hank says. Connor snorts.

"Pretty bad, yeah."

Their fingers curl, hands gripping each other. "So what now?" Hank doesn't know where the question comes from. Hope, maybe? Stupid -- since when does he have hope for fucking  _ anything _ ?

“I guess now we try to be professional about this whole thing,” Connor says with a shrug.

He lets go of Hank’s hand, and Hank misses the contact immediately.

"But ah,” Connor continues, “No judgement if we fail, right?" He gives Hank a wink that sets Hank's cheeks on fire. Hank should lock him up for that shit -- It's gotta be criminal.

_ No judgement _ , Hank thinks, even as a swarm of guilt descends upon his guts like locusts. When Hank takes a little too long to respond, Connor's smile slips just a bit. "Well, I should --"

"Of course, yeah, I'll uh, follow you out in a minute." 

Connor nods. “Have a nice day, Lieutenant.”

With that, he cracks open the door, glances side to side, then casts one last smile over his shoulder. Hank returns it as best he can before Connor’s out the door. It swings shut behind him.

* * *

Connor was right, Hank finds out later. There’s nothing in the employee manual about not fucking in the station bathroom, but as Hank flips through his holy-shit-have-I-really-never-opened-this copy of the manual that night, he finds plenty else to give him pause.

He’s sitting on the couch with Sumo’s massive head in his lap, scratching behind the dog’s ears and, for the first time in a long time, not even drinking. The anti-fraternization rules are many, and they’re complicated, and he wouldn’t mind a clear head while he reads them over.

They’d be a lot less complicated if Hank weren’t a fucking lieutenant, or if they worked in separate precincts. Working together like this? It’d be bad enough if they were the same rank, but he could lose a lot if he’s caught fucking a uniformed officer -- his rank, if not his job.

But Hank hasn’t cared about either in so long. It’s just been routine, habit. Work and life and everything has just been… gray. And now? Some burst of unexpected sunshine peeks through those storm clouds that have been churning around him all these years. And, damn it, he wants nothing more than to soak it in. Stupid or not.

On his lap, Sumo grumbles in his sleep, and Hank tosses the manual onto the coffee table. There’s a headache forming behind his eyes -- stress or alcohol withdrawal, he doesn’t know. And he doesn’t care. He pats Sumo’s head gently, staring at his reflection in the dark TV screen.

He’s run his hands through his hair so many times tonight, it’s become an unruly tangle of curl and cowlick, and his beard isn’t faring much better. It was in need of a good trim a month ago, and he still hasn’t gotten around to it.

He looks like he’s been poured onto the couch like congealed milk -- lumpy and pale and sick. And he can’t imagine there’s anyone in the world who wants this. Last night, it was one thing. He and Connor were both drunk, and Connor was clearly looking to get laid.

Hank had been happy to be the closest available body. But today? What was Connor’s excuse today? What was  _ Hank’s _ ? There’s no reason either of them should risk it. Connor’s got a bright future in the force, and Hank -- well he supposes he had a bright past.

But he knows as he stares at himself that if Connor still wants this, Hank'll give it to him. Helps that he likes the guy. The petulance, the impertinence, the way he says “baby” and the way he says “Lieutenant” and, fuck but Hank wants to know how his name sounds on that tongue.

So yes, they’ll try to be professional about this, sure.

But no judgement if they fail. Hank smiles at his reflection -- genuine and unguarded and, God help him, hopeful.

* * *

The meeting in the bathroom should have been the end of it. Hell, the meeting in the bar should have been the end of it.

But a couple days later when Connor’s on his knees in an alcove of the parking garage, mouth stretched around Hank’s cock, Hank’s fingers winding through his hair, Hank’s so fucking glad it wasn’t the end of it.

And it doesn't end the next time they sequester themselves in the bathroom, the next time they accidentally walk into the evidence room at the same time and have the foresight to lock the door, or the next time Connor drags him by his collar into the supply closet.

It’s not every day. They don’t even see each other every day, and frankly Hank doesn’t think he’d get  _ any _ work done if he had to try to function with this kind of anticipation (not to mention the number this affair is doing on his back). But when it does happen --

when their eyes meet across the bullpen or, fuck, over a goddamn crime scene -- they both know exactly what they want from each other.

Or, Hank knows exactly what Connor wants from  _ him _ , at least.

He starts keeping condoms in his desk drawer, like an idiot, and as soon as Connor finds out he convinces Hank to reprise their first night in the car. This time, they drive a few minutes to an alleyway where, hopefully, they won’t be heard or recognized.

It’s even better than the first night, the way Connor rides him. Hank knows what Connor likes now, knows how to make him feel good, and Connor sure as shit knows the same for Hank. Connor keeps up a relentless pace until Hank’s a mess beneath him, until Hank can’t do anything but rest his hands on Connor’s thighs and choke out “God, god, god,” like a prayer of gratitude. They spend the whole hour of their lunch break after that with Connor draped over Hank’s body, breathing so soft and warm that it tickles Hank’s chest hair. Hank laughs, and Connor does too. He doesn’t think either of them know why.

But the longer this goes on -- weeks, then months -- Hank can’t help but wonder if Connor has any idea what Hank wants from  _ him _ .

_ It’s not enough _ , Hank’s traitorous mind thinks every time Connor buttons up his uniform, smiles, walks away.  _ It’s not enough _ . But who the hell is he to want more when he’s never had anything this good to call his own? How could he dare to ask for Connor to come home with him? Share his bed? How could he even hope that Connor might want more than they have?

“Is this what you want?” Hank whispers sometimes, always enjoying the shiver that passes through Connor’s frame at the hot breath on his ear. It ripples down Connor’s whole body, pressed between Hank and the wall, warm and alive and his -- for a moment. Only ever for a moment.

Cheeky, coy, with that smile that's brought Hank to his knees more than once (and more than Hank likes to admit) the little shit always responds, “Couldn’t ask for more, baby."

Neither can Hank. That’s the problem.

It’s somewhere a few months down the line that Hank’s holding Connor close to him. It’s part necessity -- the supply closet is easily the least convenient of their go-to spots, cramped and tight and musty and dark -- but part desire, too.

They've both already come -- the way Hank holds him isn't about that. It's about this. The smell of Connor's hair and the heat of Connor's body. He traces the moles on Connor’s back, making his own constellations, familiar constellations, now.

Their foreheads are pressed together; Hank kisses Connor’s nose.

“Is there--” Hank begins. Connor pulls back, just a little. In the light seeping in from under the door, half his face lies in shadow and the other gleams white as alabaster. “Do you do this with anyone else?” Hank finally forces out. He should have asked a long time ago, but he's always been afraid of the answer. Hank wasn't afraid of anything before Connor. He had nothing left to lose.

Connor laughs, quiet and warm, bringing a hand to Hank’s beard and tugging it gently. “You think I have the energy?” he asks. “You wear me out, baby.”

A smile makes its way to Hank’s lips. “You’re the young buck between the two of us. For all I know you're hooking up with Reed after hours or something."

Connor has to put his hand over his mouth to stifle his laugh at that one. “Much as I value our bromance,” Connor whispers. “I don’t think Reed can handle me.”

What a fucking look Connor’s giving him then -- like they share an inside joke.

Like Hank’s the only one who knows Connor. Not the high-strung, stick-to-the-rules, polished-shoes Connor he is when he’s working. But this Connor. The one Hank can’t handle either, if he’s being honest with himself.

“What about you?” Connor asks, and something shifts in his expression.

“What, am I hooking up with Reed?” Hank knows what Connor is asking. Connor gives him a dry look. 

“Lieutenant.”

If his responding chuckle sounds forced, it’s 'cause it is. More a short, quiet bark than anything. Humorless. “There’s no one else,” he says.

Hands climbing Hank’s chest, Connor leans up and kisses him. Their lips press slowly together, Connor’s breath warm in Hank’s mouth. He doesn’t know what it means.

Outside, a shadow passes by the door, and they pull apart.

* * *

It’s a robbery. That’s all. They deal with so many robberies in Detroit, Hank shouldn’t even pay a hint of attention to his radio when he hears it. Especially considering it’s his lunch break and he hasn’t eaten a damn thing all day.

Except he knows the voice calling it in. “We’ve got a 1410 in-progress,” Chen snaps over the crackling speaker. “10-13, need an ambulance. Backup, too.” Then an address. Hank stalls over his thoughts, slams on the breaks, ignores the honking and the shouts and the cars flying by.

In a panic, he grabs the radio from his dash. “Officer Chen, did you say 10-13? Chen?” 10-13 means an officer needs help. If Chen’s the one radioing it in, Hank doubts it’s her in trouble. That only leaves one option.

“On my way,” another voice chimes in. It’s Reed.

“Me too,” Hank snaps. He tosses the radio onto his dash and floors it, flipping on the hidden lights on his dashboard.

Hank’s practically on the other side of town; it’s stupid to even try to provide the backup they need. But his mind is sparking with white noise and all he can think about is Connor.

Connor hurt, Connor shot. Connor anything but safe and in Hank’s arms the way he should be.

He drives like a maniac, pushing his poor, ancient car to the limit, weaving in and out of traffic and running every red light he passes. But even so, by the time his tires screech and drag black streaks along the asphalt outside the convenience store, he’s the fifth cop car on the scene. The ambulance is already there, its lights flashing soundlessly.

Hank throws himself out of his car, leaving the door wide open. Above him, gray clouds shed sheets of rain, thunder rumbling somewhere far in the distance. He weaves past the lookie-loos gathered by the police tape, flashes his badge at an officer he doesn’t recognize.

There’s more than a few cops milling around. Chris is there, talking to a woman with a shock blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Chen’s standing off to the side, rubbing her head, while Lewis and a young woman who must be his new partner talk to her in low tones.

Gavin is the closest to him, standing and staring at the shattered windows of the store, looking like he’s deep in thought. Hank rushes over to him. “Reed,” he snaps, and Gavin turns to him. 

“What the hell are you doing here, old man?” Reed asks.

Hank doesn’t even care about his petulant tone, doesn’t care about anything except -- “Connor,” Hank says quickly. “Officer Stern. Is he --”

Gavin raises an eyebrow and nods over to the ambulance. “Got in the way of a bullet. Happens to the best of us.”

Hank doesn’t process what Gavin’s smile means. He just shoves right past him and stalks toward the ambulance. Its doors are open, but as Hank rounds the back his eyes fall on two figures. An EMT, holding a police jacket in her hands --

And Connor. He’s sitting in the open back of the vehicle, his shirt shed. He’s glancing down at his arm, where a white bandage has been wound around his bicep. And, for the love of god, he’s smiling. Hank approaches on weak knees.

“You did a great job, Lydia,” Connor’s saying. “Doesn’t even hurt.”

“It will soon,” the EMT assures him. “Those painkillers don’t last forever.”

“I’m not worried,” Connor says. He lifts his eyes to her, and only then does he seem to notice Hank, standing there behind her, dumbstruck and rainsoaked and probably pale as a fucking ghost.

“Lieutenant!” Connor says brightly.

He hops off the back of the ambulance and walks toward Hank. He seems fine -- everything but his arm. He’s  _ fine _ . Hank’s so relieved his knees almost buckle.

“I’m surprised they called you down from the station. We arrested the suspect, there’s nothing --”

Fear has a way of breaking people down to their basest instincts. The night Cole died, Hank trashed his house, the primal urge for revenge rising in him, nothing to take it out on but himself. Maybe that was his body’s way of protecting him, letting the animal heart take over.

But now, here, with Connor in front of him, it’s not anger that overrides his common sense. It’s love. And though his greatest instinct should be self-preservation, it isn’t. It’s this. 

Hank doesn’t make the decision to pull Connor into his arms. He just does it. He takes one solid step, brings a hand to the back of Connor’s head and yanks him forward, tucking Connor’s face against his shoulder.

Connor’s stiff in his arms, his heart pounding so hard against Hank’s chest, Hank wonders if it’s trying to break free like his own.

If they’re trying to reach for each other. 

The rain falls hard around them, Connor’s back slick with it under Hank’s hand. Hank presses a kiss into the crown of Connor's head, inhales the rain scent of his hair.

“Lieutenant,” Connor hisses. He pulls away, breaking out of Hank’s grasp and taking a solid step back.

His hair is wet, rivulets dripping from the curl of hair over his forehead down his nose, his lips, his chin. He’s okay. He’s okay and all Hank wants to do is hold him.

“I thought --”

“I’m alright,” Connor says quietly. His eyes flick around like a prey animal expecting an ambush, and Hank suddenly realizes where they are, who they’re surrounded by. Detectives and police officers -- all of them plenty good at reading people themselves.

Hank’s eyes follow Connor’s to Gavin, who’s standing off to the side and staring at them like he just solved all the mysteries of the world. In that expression, Hank sees the rumor mill turning already, and he swallows.

“You shouldn’t have come, Lieutenant,” Connor says. He takes a step back toward the ambulance. “The situation’s under control.”

Hank wants to move forward, more than anything. He wants to follow Connor, to hold him, to remind himself that Connor is here and alive and his -- even for a moment. Only  _ ever _ for a moment. But holy shit, Connor’s right. He just broke the only rule they ever had between them. 

Stay quiet.

It was never just for Hank’s sake, but Connor’s too. 

So Hank holds Connor’s eyes for just a moment before he nods. “Right. Yeah, just making sure everything was alright." 

_ Making sure you were alright _ , he wants to say. He doesn't.

He doesn't even say goodbye. He shoves past Reed for the second time that day and ignores the stares of Chen and Chris and Lewis and the other officers on the scene, ignores the lingering feeling of Connor's wet skin against his hand.

And he leaves.  _ You shouldn't have come _ , Connor said. Of course he shouldn't have. They aren't lovers. They aren't friends. They're hardly colleagues. 

But somehow the thought of losing Connor stings worse than the realization that Hank never had him to begin with.

* * *

Hank sends Captain Fowler a message, says he’s going home sick the rest of the day. If this were a few months ago, Fowler would’ve assumed Hank was just getting drunk. That used to be what Hank was like. He’d been drinking less lately. Drinking made it hard to get to work on time.

And he’d had to get to work on time to catch a glimpse of Connor at the station before his shift started.

Hank is going to get drunk today. That’s the plan, at least. And probably every day for the foreseeable future.

He tosses his keys by the door, lets Sumo out, and heads to the fridge to crack open a beer. It’s only 1 p.m, but that never stopped him before.

He can’t believe himself. Except, he can, because of course he’d be the one to fuck this up. They had a good thing going. Sure it was risky -- fucking in public was an idiotic move for a couple of cops -- but it wasn’t outright dangerous until Hank’s stupid fucking heart and stupid fucking hope got involved.

It was just supposed to be a one-night stand. Some handsome guy in a shitty club making Hank forget his baggage for one night. Maybe it’d be better if it stayed that way. If Connor had never come to work for the DPD. If he was “John” in Hank’s head and Hank was nothing but “baby.”

But, then, Hank would have missed the last few months. He would’ve missed learning the shape of Connor’s smile pressed against his skin. He would’ve missed the way Connor laughed at his own jokes or the way he organized everything he did with to-do lists and schedules.

He would’ve missed writing the constellations on Connor’s back. 

Hank might get fired, if the truth comes out. And the truth will probably come out considering he just held Connor in the rain like the cover of a romance novel. But he’ll vouch for Connor if he can. If his word means anything.

This is the shit that goes through his head as he sits in silence on his couch, as Sumo whines and wanders worriedly around him, as he drinks three beers and thinks about whiskey before too long. He doesn’t feel a fucking thing yet. Or, no, he feels too much, and that’s the problem.

If he’s waiting for anything, it’s a call from Fowler, chewing him out for fraternizing. He doesn’t expect a knock on his door.

But one comes anyway. Sumo barks. Hank looks blankly out the window. His beer hangs limp and half-drunk in his hand. “Not home,” he shouts.

Whoever’s outside rings the doorbell. Hank doesn’t answer. They ring it again, longer, insistent. Hank lays his head back on the couch. “I said I’m not fucking home,” he shouts again. 

“You’d better be home,” a very familiar voice snaps through the door. Hank’s back straightens so fast it hurts. “I took a cab here and it smelled like vomit.” Hank stands, sets his beer on the coffee table. “And it’s cold out here,” He rounds the couch toward the door. “And I’ve been ordered to rest today, but hey if you don’t want to open the f--"

Hank opens the door. 

Connor stares at him, wide-eyed for all of a moment before a hard mask settles into place. “Thank you,” he says, shoving past Hank to the relative warmth inside. Hank barely has the wherewithal to react.

He manages to close the door against the cold blowing in, but it takes him a good few seconds to turn around. He does though, eventually.

Connor’s out of his police uniform, wearing a white collared shirt like the night they met, though it’s been soaked through from the rain.

He’s standing there in the entryway like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, and Hank empathizes.

"Connor,” he says quietly. “What are you doing here?”

Connor turns to face him, but before he says a word, a white mass appears around the couch behind him, and Sumo butts his head into the back of Connor’s knee with a welcoming “boof.” Connor stumbles forward and Hank reaches out to steady him, hands on Connor’s forearms.

It looks like his face wants to smile when Connor looks down at the needy St. Bernard. “I always wanted to meet your dog,” he says. He pulls out of Hank’s grasp and kneels down, scratching behind Sumo’s ears. Hank’s heart clenches. “L -- let me get you a towel,” he mutters.

He does, half-jogging to the bathroom and back, scared if he blinks Connor will be gone. But Connor’s still kneeling there rubbing Sumo’s belly when Hank comes back into the room. Hank wordlessly hands the towel to him, and Connor wordlessly accepts it, runs it over his hair.

“Listen,” Hank says. Connor stands. He’s not meeting Hank’s eyes. “I, uh, I’m sorry. For earlier. I thought you were …” He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence, how to convey all the terrible things Hank thought Connor was before he showed up to find him safe.

“I didn’t come here for an apology,” Connor says. He squeezes his sleeves into the towel. Under the fabric, Hank can see the outline of his bandage. Hank hopes Connor’s not in pain.

“So, why…?” 

Connor finally meets his eyes. “I want to play a game,” he says.

Hank’s eyes blow wide, searching Connor’s face for some kind of explanation. His brows are drawn tight, hard, but there’s something sad in the tilt of his lips that makes Hank worry.

“What kind of game?”

“Like the night we met.”

( _ I like this game _ , Connor had said back then, his voice low and warm and all the things it isn’t right now). As Hank stares, Connor rounds the couch, folds the towel and sets it down before he takes a seat. Hank follows, numb and dumb.

He finally sits, too.

Sumo, ignored, wanders dejectedly over to his bed in the corner. “You start,” Connor says. Hank stares down at his beer bottle but doesn't pick it up.

“You want me to guess something about you?” Hank asks. He knows Connor too well to play now, doesn’t he? At least, it feels like he does. Maybe he still has a lot to learn. 

“Yes.”

“Anything?”

“ _ Yes _ .” 

Hank rubs his forehead, leans his elbows on his knees. “You’re uh... fuck, I dunno. You're the oldest sibling?" Hank guesses. "Outta, what, three?"

“Good guess,” Connor says. There’s the hint of pride in his voice. “Silas and Niles are my brothers’ names.”

Hank nods. "I figured. You’re too fucking organized to be the youngest, that’s for sure.” Connor huffs a half a laugh, and Hank can't stand it. “Connor, what --”

“My turn,” Connor interrupts. “Might as well guess the same thing. You’re an only child, right?”

Hank blinks, and finally Connor turns to him. Under that scrutinizing stare, Hank can do nothing but answer him. “Sure am,” Hank says. Connor wears a slight, knowing smile.

“I thought so,” Connor says. “You’re selfish enough.”

Hank draws back. In spite of himself, the comment stings coming from Connor. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“Your turn” Connor says instead of answering. Hank rolls his eyes.

“I don’t want to play any games, alright?” Hank snaps. It hurts to pretend nothing's wrong.

“Just tell me what you want from me. You don’t want an apology? Fine, so --”

“I’ll go again then,” Connor says over Hank.

“What do you--”

“You’re in love with me, aren’t you?”

The whole world falls silent. Even the thunder stops rumbling outside, the rain barely a patter on the roof. A moment yawns and gapes between them like a chasm, and Hank has no idea how to cross it.

“What --”

“Don’t tell me you aren’t,” Connor says. There’s something hollow in his expression. “It took me long enough to figure out, so just … give me this one.”

Hank pauses. “I can’t.”

Because of course he can’t. And it’s not because it’s against the rules, because fuck if Hank’s disciplinary file isn’t already bursting with infractions. It’s because Connor deserves more than he ever got from Hank.

He deserves more than hasty fucks in the bathroom stall and muffled breaths between kisses. He deserves more than he  _ could _ ever get from Hank. More than a tired old man who’s lost too much and has nothing left to give.

Connor's face twists into a scowl, and he looks away, leaning back against the couch with his arms crossed over his chest. "This is what I mean. You're so  _ selfish _ ."

Hank stares at him. Connor sighs, continues. "It's okay though," Connor adds, tenor changing. "I am too."

The air lies heavy between them, thick with something Hank can't seem to claw through.

"Your turn," Connor practically whispers. "Guess something about me."

And there, looking into Connor's tired eyes, it pours over Hank like ice cold water, like rain, freezing him right here where he sits. It's not a  _ realization  _ \-- he already knew, somewhere buried in him -- but he wasn't going to let himself believe it. Not until now.

"You're … in love with me, too." It isn't a guess.

Connor gives him a wan smile. "Got it in one." 

Hank is not the type to be struck speechless, but from the moment they met, Connor has been able to disarm him without even trying. He's the only thing that's ever been able to raze Hank's walls.

"See," Connor says, "the funny thing about hating yourself, is it turns you into such a selfish shit." 

Hank stiffens, and he's about to at least attempt to defend himself when Connor lays a hand on his knee. "I wasn't talking about you," Connor clarifies. "Well not  _ just _ you."

“What are you saying, Connor?” Hank asks. It feels like he has to force the question past his reluctant lips, and Connor -- Connor looks reluctant when  _ he _ speaks, too.

"I'm saying all this time I thought I knew what was best for you,” he says. “Thought I knew what you deserved. Thought I should keep my distance so you didn't see how messed up I am. I thought … what we had was better than nothing, and if you knew me you wouldn't want me. Sound familiar?"

Hank doesn't dare rest his hand on Connor's, but he wants to. Connor shifts closer. "Until you showed up today, I didn't think there was a chance in hell you felt anything for me."

"Are you fucking me?" Hank asks. "How could -- you're --" he flounders.

"I'm a mess," Connor fills in for him, laughing. "You know why I never invited you to my place? It's disgusting Every horizontal surface is covered in dirty clothes because I hate doing laundry. I use paper plates so I don't have to do dishes, and I  _ still  _ leave them lying around. There's an overflowing ashtray by the bathtub where I chain smoke and take depression baths. Sometimes the cigarette butts fall in the water and I just soak in them like I'm steeping in nicotine tea." Hank's expression must speak for him, 'cause Connor laughs again. "And that's not even the half of it. And I'm telling you because you're a mess, too. We are both selfish, fucked up people, and we fell in love with each other anyway."

Love. Why does it feel like a miracle coming out of Connor's mouth?

Hank’s dumbfounded, but Connor’s looking at him, expectant -- maybe even  _ worried _ because he just revealed all the shit he thought would chase Hank away. Hank isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or cry. If anything, knowing prim and perfect Connor isn't prim and perfect at all… Somehow it makes him love him even more. He wants to learn every secret behind the crisp button-up shirts and polished shoes. Even the messy secrets. Especially the messy secrets.

“Sounds like you’re even more fucked up than me,” Hank mutters. It feels like … like he’s smiling.

Tension bleeds from Connor’s body. “I could give you a run for your money at least,” he says. The moment hangs suspended between them, and Hank never wants to shatter it. But he needs to know...

"Today," Hank starts slowly, "You said I shouldn't have come."

Connor's smile falters. "You shouldn't have," he says. "But I'm glad you did. I'm sorry for scaring you." 

Finally, Hank swallows his courage, lays a hand over Connor's. Connor grips it immediately. "Sorry for blowing our cover."

"You didn't," Connor assures him. "Chen said it made sense you showed up. She knows we’re uh … _ friends _ . And she says you don't like losing people. I mean, no one does, but -- you know." Connor pauses, looking down. “She didn’t tell me much. That’s your story to tell when you’re ready. But I know you’ve lost more than most.”

Hank is grateful Chen didn't go into details. He's about to force himself to explain when Connor strokes his thumb.

And he realizes: They both have baggage to sift through -- mountains of baggage, from the sounds of it. But Hank doesn't want to do that now. Not when Connor's holding his hand. Not when something dangerously close to happiness is rising in his chest.

So he changes the subject. There's something else he needs to know, anyway.

"My turn," Hank says. "To, uh, guess something. About you." Staring at him, Connor looks -- fuck, he looks hopeful. "You ran into me on purpose. At the club the night we met. Didn't you?"

Suddenly, Hank has no regrets risking his job and livelihood for this (not that he had many to begin with). Connor's smile glows in the dim room. "You caught me. You think I'd miss my chance to chat up a hot piece of ass like you?"

Hank snorts, a sudden lightness of spirit taking him completely off-guard. "Don't make fun of me, you little shit," Hank grumbles, but he can tell from Connor's eyes that he's as serious as a heart attack. And just as likely to be the cause of Hank's death.

"My turn," Connor says. Low, warm. He shifts, presses closer. "You  _ really _ want to kiss me right now."

"You caught me," Hank echoes with a bare breath of a laugh. And it's selfish, but he does. He leans in and takes Connor's lips, brings Connor's hand to Hank's chest. His heart pounds. Like rain.

Permission granted, it seems, Connor climbs gracelessly into Hank's lap, straddling his thighs and rolling into him. He tilts his head, licks between Hank's lips, and makes a sound that Hank, on instinct, almost asks him to stifle.

But for once, they're alone.

Hank pulls back, hands on Connor's chest to keep him from diving back in, though by the way Connor licks his lips it looks like he might put up a fight. "Hold on," Hank says, strained. "What about work? The rules --"

Hank could see himself quitting for this. Turning in his badge, spending his early retirement days and every damn day after with the assurance that he traded a shit job for a good relationship. But Connor still has a career to pursue, and Hank could still mess that up for him if he's not careful.

Connor holds his eyes, then lets out a dramatic sigh. Flopping back on Hank's lap, his shoulders slump. "I was going to surprise you," he says, tugging Hank's collar lamely. "Job opened up in a precinct on my side of town. I'm transferring."

"W… wait. What?"

Connor's lips curl. "And you will no longer be my direct superior. Starting next month, this is a perfectly compliant relationship. Provided we, ah, stop fucking on the clock, that is."

Something like joy chokes Hank's throat, but it's been so long since he felt something like this, he can't be sure. "And until then?" He ekes out.

Connor grins, wolfish, and Hank remembers the flashing lights of the club. Pink and red, pink and red. "Think you can keep quiet for a little longer?"

Hank's chest hollows of breath as he laughs. Yeah. Yeah, that's joy right there. Unbridled fucking happiness. "I guess I can."

With that, Connor swoops back in, knocking Hank's hands out of the way so he can wrap his arms around Hank's neck. He slides forward on Hank's lap, grinds against him, and Hank lets Connor kiss him, lets Connor lick a groan from his mouth, lets Connor hold him.

His hands come up to Connor's arms, and Connor gasps -- this time not a pleasant sound. Hank yanks back. "Sorry, fuck, your arm --"

"It's okay," Connor soothes. "It's just a scratch."

"It's a bullet wound," Hank deadpans. Connor chuckles and ducks his forehead against Hank's. He runs his fingers through Hanks beard. Soft. Reverent. 

"Then be gentle with me, baby."

Hank could ask the same. He should. (He thought he was broken already, never realized how fragile the pieces of him still were; Connor could shatter him if he wanted, if he's not careful).

Instead, he says "Hank." Connor pulls back to meet his eyes, a question in them. "Just… call me Hank."

The smile that spreads over Connor's lips is smooth as butter, and Hank can’t help leaning in for a taste. "Hank," Connor whispers against his lips. "Hank."

It sounds even better than Hank had imagined, his name in Connor’s mouth.

Hank vows then, his hands rucking up Connor’s wet shirt, heart beating against Connor’s chest, that he’s going to make Connor scream that name at every opportunity. As loud as he wants.

They kiss like they’re on fire with it, Connor’s hands tangling in Hank’s hair and keeping him close, his hips rolling hard and intent. He’s letting out tiny whimpers into Hank’s mouth as his erection grows hard against Hank’s own, and Hank could lose himself in this moment if they were anywhere but here. In Hank’s home, behind the safety of closed doors. He pulls away slightly, catches his breath, licks his lips. 

“Since that first night we met, I wanted to treat you right,” he mumbles. He brings his hands to the buttons of Connor’s shirt, popping them one by one, and he leans in to taste the stretches of exposed skin. Connor shivers against him. “Wanted to take you home.” Connor’s hands settle on his shoulders, gripping him hard as Hank leans in, flicks his tongue over a nipple. “Wanted to give you everything you deserve.”

Connor hums, and a hand under Hank’s chin tilts Hank’s head backwards. “Then give it to me now, Hank,” Connor whispers. “What do I deserve?”

Hank couldn’t possibly answer that question with words. Connor deserves everything, more than Hank could ever give him. But more than that, Connor deserves everything he  _ wants _ . And somehow, for some reason, he wants  _ Hank _ .

“C’mere,” Hank says, breathless, and swoops in to steal Connor’s lips once more. He fits his hands under Connor’s thighs as Connor wraps his arms around Hank’s shoulders, anticipating, maybe. He’s very good at reading Hank.

So when Hank gets to his feet, holding Connor hard against him, Connor wraps his legs around Hank’s middle and lets Hank carry him. He smiles into their kiss, even laughs, some musical sound bubbling out of him that makes a smile spread so wide over Hank’s face he couldn’t keep kissing Connor if he tried. 

“Don’t drop me,” Connor huffs, as Hank carts him unceremoniously around the couch, down the hall, toward the bedroom. Hank fits his hands harder under Connor’s thighs. 

“I could hold you like this all day,” he protests. “You’re ten pounds soaking wet.”

Connor’s laugh at that is like balm for Hank’s soul, reaching into all the dark places Hank thought might never see the light of day again. He ducks his head against Hank’s neck as Hank kicks the bedroom door open and carries Connor over the threshold. 

Instead of responding, Connor just licks a stripe up Hank’s neck that sends a shiver through his whole frame. And, okay, if Connor doesn’t want to get dropped he’d better stop doing  _ that _ . Luckily, in just a few long strides they reach the bed, and Hank leans forward to deposit Connor onto the mattress. 

There’s dirty clothes everywhere, Hank’s bed unmade, magazines laying open and discarded on the floor, but when he lays Connor back and leans over him, Connor’s eyes -- his beautiful, dark, smiling eyes -- aren’t looking at anything but Hank.

“That was hot,” Connor says, licking his lips.

“More where that came from, sweetheart,” Hank promises. He runs his hands up Connor’s naked abdomen, cold and clammy from the rain, and all he wants to do is heat him up. “Take this off,” he mutters, tugging at the hem of Connor’s shirt, hanging loose on his shoulders. Connor doesn’t waste a second leaning up and complying.

“You too,” he breathes, balling up his shirt and tossing it toward the pile of clothes on Hank’s floor. Hank tugs his shirt over his head and aims for the same spot, rather liking the idea of their clothes winding up in the laundry together -- if either of them ever does the laundry again -- their messes a perfect complement to each other. 

Connor doesn’t ask why Hank’s laughing when Hank dives in for another kiss. He just laughs with him, curling his arms around Hank’s back and holding him close, running those strong, slender fingers over the scars and moles and zits and everything else that makes Hank so imperfect. The way Connor touches him -- he feels beautiful.

They take their time from there, sinking into slow, reverent kisses as Hank rolls his hips, grinding against Connor’s erection, teasing him through the fabric of his slacks and Hank’s own jeans. The muted pleasure holds off any urgency, reminds them they have all afternoon, all night, however long they want or need. 

And when they do finally struggle out of their pants and lay together on the bed, when their legs tangle and Hank finally runs his worshipful hands over Connor’s naked body pressed against him, it’s not hurry that speeds them along. It’s not the fear of discovery or the urgency of a short break. It’s just desire. 

He rolls on top of Connor, licks and nips down his body, mouths at the hard line of his groin, noses against the base of his cock. He takes Connor into his mouth, watches as Connor grips the pillow by his head, as Connor’s eyes flutter closed. He holds Connor’s hip down against the mattress with one strong hand and takes him to his root, and all the while he commits every sound Connor makes to memory. 

Oh, he is  _ loud _ , all deep groans and hearty moans and sharp gasps that shoot straight to Hank’s cock. “Baby,” Connor says on an exhale, his fingers curling into Hank’s hair, digging into his scalp. 

Hank recognizes that for a warning, and he wouldn’t even need one. Connor’s slick with precum and his cock is straining and pulsing against Hank’s tongue, and as much as Hank wants to swallow him down, he doesn’t want this to end just yet. He pulls off with one last, long lick that pulls a shuddering whimper out of Connor’s mouth, and then he’s laying over Connor again, kissing him hard, a hand running up Connor’s side. 

Connor curls a leg around Hank’s back, keeping him close, and it’s when their erections press hard against each other that Connor chuckles low and warm into Hank’s mouth. “So good taking care of me, Hank,” he whispers. “Let me take care of you, too.”

As if Hank could resist  _ that _ . He nods, speechless, and Connor kisses his lips, his cheek, his jaw -- giggling at the tickle of Hank’s beard -- and kisses down Hank’s neck. Hank half expects Connor to sink down the bed, to take Hank in his mouth, too. But instead he whispers “Lube?” so sweetly Hank almost doesn’t even recognize the word. 

It takes him a few seconds, but he makes it there eventually. “Uh, table, bedside table,” he stutters inelegantly, and Connor laughs, pulling away just enough to reach over to Hank’s nightstand. Hank should be embarrassed to have this gorgeous twink digging through his masturbation drawer, but thankfully Connor doesn’t emerge with any of the dildos or the porn mags or anything too mortifying. He just pulls the tube of lube out and hands it to Hank, catching Hank’s eyes. 

He sure as fuck doesn’t need to ask. Hank practically scrambles to pop the tube open, squeezing some onto his fingers. He settles at Connor’s side while Connor spreads his legs, and holy shit he might just come before the main event, as obscene as the sight is. 

For all the times they’ve fucked, they’ve never shed all their clothes, never taken their time with each other. And Connor’s gorgeous like this, bare and spread out for him. 

They kiss slowly as Hank reaches between Connor’s legs and teases Connor’s hole with a slick finger, as Hank swallows down Connor’s hitched breaths and the low groan when Hank finally slips that finger inside him. He likes to take his time with this part, but Connor is always so impatient. It isn’t long before he’s thrusting down onto Hank’s finger, begging breathless for more. 

Soon, Hank’s three fingers deep inside him, rubbing and stretching him open, and Connor’s forehead is slick with sweat and he’s panting hard into Hank’s mouth. Hank’s so hard it hurts, but he wants to do this right, wants Connor to feel so, so good, wants to give him everything he deserves and everything he wants and more and --

“Hank,” Connor whines, “c’mon.” It’s not the most eloquent request, but Hank understands it immediately anyway, and he’d be an idiot not to give into it. He pulls out, rolls over Connor once more, and reaches back into the drawer for his condoms. When he retrieves one, Connor snatches it out of his hand.

“Ah, ah,” he says, ripping it open himself. “I’ve barely gotten to touch your dick all day.” There’s a playful tilt to his lips, and Hank can only breathe out a laugh as he settles comfortably between Connor’s legs, and Connor reaches down to roll the condom over his length. His touch is tender, delicate even, and Hank is almost lost at that touch alone.

“You’re too much,” Hank says without thinking, his hand running down Connor’s body from chest to torso, calluses catching on Connor’s smooth skin. 

“You too,” Connor fires back with a grin. “Think you can handle me anyway?”

“If you can handle  _ me _ ,” Hank laughs. Connor reaches between his legs, grabs his balls and lifts his hips, and the sight of him ready and slick and waiting for him is enough to wipe the smile right off Hank’s lips.

“Oh, I can,” Connor says. And Hank believes him unequivocally. He strokes himself a few times, staring at Connor, running his eyes over Connor’s body as if tracing all the places he’s touched. And finally he lines himself up with Connor’s entrance. Connor lets out a long breath, and Hank sinks forward. Resting an elbow beside Connor’s head, he presses their foreheads together and guides himself inside.

That first brush of friction makes Hank bite his lip against a sound, but Connor reaches between them to rest a hand on Hank’s chest. “‘S’okay, baby,” Connor says, voice strained. “S’okay.” 

Hank nods, catches his breath, and rolls his hips, thrusting deeper inside Connor. He chokes out a groan and Connor whines in the back of his throat, his hand clenching against Hank’s chest, gripping his chest hair tight. “That’s it,” Connor encourages him gently. “That’s it.”

Hank rolls his hips again, again, shallow thrusts that drag out just enough friction to keep him hard and hungry and wanting more, just enough to keep Connor gasping and grunting beneath him. Between their bodies, Connor begins to stroke his own cock, and Hank takes this as permission. He bucks harder, ripping a choked groan out of Connor’s lips, and Connor nods frantically, eyes screwed shut. “Yes,” he whispers, answering Hank’s unspoken question. 

And that’s all Hank needs. He rolls into Connor again, pulls out, thrusts again deep and hard and setting up a rhythm. And each time he sinks to his hilt inside Connor, Connor whispers pleasured sounds of gratitude and encouragement and praise, most not even forming the shape of words. 

But Hank can feel them anyway, can read them in Connor’s face contorted in pleasure, can feel it in the way Connor strokes himself off hard and fast and hurtling toward the edge. The mattress creaks, and Hank’s memory floods with the sound of the car axles beneath them. He drops his head to Connor’s chest, and one of Connor’s hands comes up to soothe his hair. 

“Oh, Connor,” Hank moans, muffled against Connor’s skin, and while he fucks harder into him, shoving Connor up the bed on every thrust, he wonders if Connor hears everything in the simple sound of his name --  _ everything _ . How Hank has felt from the moment they met to this perfect, beautiful moment here. If Connor knows that when Hank says his name, he’s saying _ I love you _ .

Heat builds in Hank’s gut and his rhythm begins to stutter and beneath him Connor is writhing to get closer, to get deeper. He’s gasping and groaning and Hank’s name falls from his lips again and again and again.

“Hank, Hank, Hank,” Connor says, “yes, Hank, there, right there,  _ Hank _ ,” He’s begging, his hand moving faster over his cock, the slick spatter of precum dotting his stomach and Hank’s, and Hank bucks hard into him with a groan. 

“Fuck,” he gasps, “Fuck, Con, I’m --” but by the time the words hit his lips, it’s too late. The pressure rises inside him, bursts, goes off like a  _ gunshot _ and his intentions disappear into a deep groan. He buries himself in Connor, takes Connor’s skin between his teeth, and beneath him Connor bucks his hips up to take Hank as deep as he can go. 

Connor moans a string of curses, his hand working between their bodies, and in moments he’s jerking up against Hank’s stomach, splattering him with his seed, tilting his head back against the pillow and crying out. 

It’s the most beautiful sound Hank’s ever heard, but in his lust-drunk haze he doesn’t think before he stifles it, rising up on his knees and smothering Connor’s lips with his own. Connor lifts himself against Hank’s body, wraps his arms around Hank’s back and ruts against him like he can’t get enough of the friction of Hank’s belly against his sensitive cock, and every movement has Hank pulsing and throbbing inside him, his whole body on fire with pleasure and an ache he can’t and doesn’t want to relieve. 

They kiss sloppy and slack-jawed and satiated, breathless as they pant into each other’s mouths, and by the time Connor falls limp against the bed and Hank slips out of him, Hank feels like he’s been coming for _ hours _ . The waves of pleasure keep beating against him, wearing him down, and he’s sure when Connor cracks open his eyes and stares into Hank’s own that this feeling is never going to fade.

Hank has the presence of mind not to crush Connor, collapsing instead at Connor’s side, but he keeps a hand on Connor’s chest to feel his heaving breath. When Connor turns to look at him, half his face is obscured by the pillow, but the half Hank can see is smiling.

“Wow,” Connor says. Hank chuckles, ducking his head against Connor’s shoulder.

“You said it.” 

Connor lays a hand over Hank’s, strokes Hank’s knuckles absently. They’re quiet for a moment, regaining their breath, their composure. Hank thinks he could fall asleep like this, even with the uncomfortable condom still clinging to his softening cock, but soon Connor’s shifting, turning to him to lay on his side. 

“Hank,” he whispers, and Hank lifts his eyes to Connor’s. There’s something deep in Connor’s expression. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I’m sorry.”

The apology catches Hank off-guard and he draws back a little, getting a better look at Connor, at the sadness clinging to the corners of his eyes. “You’d better not be apologizing for _ that _ ,” Hank says, gesturing at -- well,  _ Connor _ .

“No, not for the sex,” Connor says, a chuckle easing some of the heartache in his eyes. “For everything before. We should’ve done it like this a long time ago.”

“Hey,” Hank says. He props himself on his elbow, getting a better look at his lover. His lover.  _ Connor _ . “We took a while to get here, but we’re here now, yeah?”

Connor’s face softens. “Yeah,” he agrees. 

“Then no apologies. If you and me both apologized for all the shit we’ve messed up, we’d be here all day.”

Connor’s responding smile is so wide it shows his teeth, but Hank doesn’t get to enjoy it for long. In moments, Connor shifts forward, snuggling deep into Hank’s chest and breathing him in.

“I  _ want _ to be here all day,” his muffled voice says, and Hank rumbles out a laugh.

“Then stay,” he suggests. He tries to keep the request light, but he can’t deny the relief when Connor’s lips smile against his skin 

“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried,” he mumbles. 

And, fuck, thank God. Because Connor might have to put up with a lot from him. Sounds like he might have to put up with a lot from Connor. But he can’t wait. He can’t wait to share his secrets, to learn Connor’s. He can’t wait to reveal himself fully and completely to someone who will love him no matter the baggage he carries. 

“I love you,” Hank says then, because he’s felt it for months, and he needs to make up for lost time.

And, like the miracle he is, Connor wraps his injured arm around Hank’s middle and pulls him just that much closer.    
  
“Love you too,” he says.

Hank laughs -- he doesn’t really know why. Giddy and warm against him, Connor laughs too.

Outside, the silver rainclouds break, just for a moment, against the white glow of the sun.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Twitter: @AdmiralLiss


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